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Updated: June 25, 2025
If one made a suggestion the other adopted it without comment unless he could urge some convincing argument against it. "Mr. Fenley should give his orders now," added Furneaux. Winter explained his wishes to the nominal head of the household, and Fenley's compliance was ready and explicit. "These gentlemen from Scotland Yard are acting in behalf of Mrs.
"Are you there?" came the calm accents of the Assistant Commissioner. "Yes, sir," said Winter. "Any progress?" "A little. Oddly enough, you are in the nick of time to help materially. Will you ring off, and find out from the exchange who 'phoned here two minutes ago? I don't mean Fenley's Bank, which is just trying to get through. I want to know who made the preceding call, which was effective."
Farrow was already in motion when Fenley's dazed mind recalled something the policeman ought to know. "I've telephoned to Scotland Yard half an hour ago," he said. "That's all right, sir. The main thing now is to search every inch of the woods. If nothing else, we may find footprints." "And make plenty of new ones." "Not if the helpers do as I tell 'em, sir." "I can't argue. I'm not fit for it.
He stood there, calm and impassive as Fate, and, without knowing it, represented Fate in her most inexorable mood; for had he betaken himself elsewhere, the shrewdest brains of Scotland Yard might have been defeated by the enigma they were asked to solve before Mortimer Fenley's murderer was discovered.
He descended from his rock and strolled toward the avenue, with no other motive than a desire to stretch his legs; his perplexity was unbounded when he discovered Mortimer Fenley's ward deep in conversation with the artist. "Well, I'm jiggered!" he said, dodging behind a giant rhododendron.
But Roxton folk feared Hilton and liked Robert; and local gossip had deplored Robert's wildness, which might erect an insurmountable barrier against an obviously suitable match between him and Mr. Mortimer Fenley's ward, the rich and beautiful Sylvia Manning.
At any other time the artist would have received that thrust en tierce with a riposte; at present, Eliza's facts were more interesting than her wit. "Who is the lady you are speaking of?" he asked guardedly. "Mr. Fenley's ward, Miss Sylvia Manning. They say she's rich. Pore young thing! Some schemin' man will turn her head, I'll go bail, an' all for the sake of her brass."
The detectives collected their belongings, which with the gun and a bag packed with various articles taken from Hilton Fenley's suite the reel, for instance, a suit of clothes bearing marks, possibly of moss, and the leather portfolio of papers were entrusted to Farrow and another constable for safe conveyance. Accompanied by Trenholme, they walked to Easton.
Unquestionably it would be difficult for any one to move about in that part of the house, or cross the gardens without attracting their attention. Their room was situated on the south front, two doors from Sylvia's, and two from Hilton Fenley's bedroom. The door lay in shadow beyond the range of the light burning in the hall. Sylvia's room was farther along the corridor.
Come, Furneaux!" And, stirred for once to a feeling of deep annoyance, the big man strode out into the open air, with a sublime disregard for either the anger or the alarm struggling for mastery in Robert Fenley's sullen face. "Phew!" he said, drawing a deep breath before descending the steps. "What an unlicked cub! And they wanted to marry that girl to him!"
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